John the Seeing Eye Dog
by Inkwell1013
Summary: When Sherlock is blinded during a case, his brother hires John to help him out.
1. Chapter 1

Lestrade is tense. Most people on the team struggle with hostage negotiations at the best of times and those people didn't have Sherlock bloody Holmes breathing down their neck and criticizing their every move. Sherlock has a reputation for being somewhat of a loose cannon and a complete idiot in dangerous circumstances. He doesn't seem to fear his own death and messes up lots of cases because of it.

Sherlock storms over to Lestrade, his face the picture of fury. "Why isn't anyone doing anything? People could die!"

Lestrade answers as truthfully as he can. "The hostage-taker is armed. We think it's just a knife but it could be something more. It's just not worth the risk,"

"How many hostages?" demands Sherlock practically spitting.

"Four that we know of," replied Lestrade, trying to stay calm.

"Give me a set of handcuffs. I'm going in," he states in a very matter of fact way. Lestrade fumbles through his bag for his handcuffs, irritating Sherlock, who snatches it away, pulling out the handcuffs instantly. He grins a shit-eating grin and speaks.

"Don't bother wishing me luck. I won't need it," he sneers and thunders away, leaving a trail of destruction behind him like a hurricane. Sherlock was like a hurricane in a lot of ways. He whirls his way onto the crime scene, wreaks havoc, and disappears as quickly as he came. Sherlock Holmes is a freak of nature.

That is the last Lestrade sees of Sherlock for a while. Ten minutes later, hostages start filtering out the door. Paramedics rush to check them over for injuries. It's a whirlwind of people and noise and bright lights. No-one seems to have noticed that Sherlock hasn't left the building yet. Seconds later, a figure stumbles out the door, before falling to their knees and collapsing onto the ground. Lestrade would recognize that mane of dark hair anywhere. It was Sherlock. Lestrade hurries toward him.

"Sherlock! Are you okay?" He shouts coming to a stop in front of the man.

Sherlock stares up at him violently through angry tears. His face is slashed open. Blood is smeared across his cheeks and, most horrifying of all, his eyes are clouding over. Lestrade has no idea what is happening.

"Do you think I'm fucking okay!" Sherlock hisses, before moaning in agony, his head in his hands. "Lestrade, call a god damn medic or something!" Lestrade calls for help and a medic, a young woman runs over. She freezes when she sees Sherlock's eyes. "What happened, mate? I need to know so I can treat you," she asks, her voice low and gentle. Lestrade recognizes her tone. He's used it enough times himself to calm down frantic victims. He grabs Sherlocks hand to ground him, to keep him from becoming hysterical.

"He threw something at my face," Sherlock gasps through the unbearable pain. "It was a corrosive compound and-"

Sherlock screams a blood-curdling shriek, clutching Lestrade's hand tightly. "I can't see, Greg. Help me. I can't… see,"

The world stands still. The eye of the hurricane is back and it's silent and echoey and the most terrifying thing Lestrade has ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wakes up in darkness, lying in a stiff bed. Why can't he see? He runs through the possibilities in his head. Could he be blindfolded? No. He would be able to feel the fabric tight against his head. The sharp smell of disinfectant wafts toward him. He recognizes it from his constant visits to the doctor as a child. So he's in a hospital. Now the question is why. He has vague memories of the day before but nothing concrete. He remembers Lestrade and a hostage situation, but nothing else. A door creaks open, and someone steps inside. A man, judging by the heavy sound of his footsteps on the linoleum.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" asks the man, in a deep baritone voice. Sherlock nods. "Good. I'm Calvin and I'll be your doctor today," the man continues.

"What's wrong with me?" demands Sherlock "Are the lights out in here or something? I can't see a thing,"

Sherlock hears the man shift uncomfortably, his lab coat rustling against his legs. He inhales sharply and breaks the news. "You've lost your sight permanently. The toxic chemical you came in contact with was very corrosive, and it's damaged your corneas," the man pauses, clearly expecting Sherlock to panic. He gets silence instead.

The man continues speaking "I'm going to prescribe you some eye drops, to stop your eyes from getting infected. You can pick those up at the front desk. Also…" the man hands Sherlock a rustling paper bag. "You're going to need these,"

There are two items in the bag. The first is a pair of plastic glasses and the other is a bundle of three sticks connected with nylon string. There was a strap on one end and a rubber ball on the other. Sherlock realizes that it's a cane. If he tugged at this end… it should… The sticks snapped together into a sturdy cane, about four feet long. So that's how that works. He folds the stick away.

"The glasses are to protect your eyes from UV light and other things. I'm sure you know what the stick's for," the doctor mentions casually. "Anyway, is there anyone I can call to pick you up?"

Sherlock groans internally. He didn't want to deal with Mycroft right know but he genuinely doesn't have a choice. It's not like he has any friends. Sherlock doesn't do friends.

"Call my brother," Sherlock says at last. "His number is 020XXXXXXXX," The doctor flips open a notebook and scribbles down the string of letters, before leaving the room quietly, with a muted goodbye.

Mycroft is having a busy day at work. He is essentially the British government, after all. He is unbelievably irritated when he receives a call from the hospital telling him that his petulant little brother Sherlock has been hospitalized. Again. Did that man do nothing else?

Mycroft grumpily agreed to pick Sherlock up before hanging up the phone, with no idea of his brother's conditions.

Upon arriving at the hospital, he parks his car and saunters into the reception. The receptionist is a sweet young man, who isn't that good at his job. He's busy filing paperwork and doesn't notice Mycroft at first. Mycroft clears his throat to get the man's attention. The man smiles.

"Yes. How can I help you?" he says at last.

"I'm here to pick up my brother. Last name Holmes." Mycroft quips.

The man taps some numbers onto the computer, searching a database of sorts. Moments later, the receptionist finds what he's looking for. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes is your brother, right? He's in room 216. Just down the corridor to your left," he smiles. Mycroft nods and walks away.

Finding room 216, he cracks open the door, only to see Sherlock lying in a hospital bed, holding a cane and a pair of dark glasses. Sherlock's head whips around in confusion. "Who's there. Is that you doctor?"

Mycroft is a very smart man, possibly the smartest man on earth. He knows things that other people don't know. Things that no-one could ever know or ever want to know. His powers of deduction outclass even his brother's. He instantly knows what's happened. Sherlock has lost his sight.

"Oh Sherlock," he sighs. "What have gotten yourself into now?"


	3. Chapter 3

John ambled down the street, leaning on his cane. He had been back in London for two weeks and had reached the end of his severance package. He really aught to get a job of some kind; he'd really prefer to not dip into his savings.

However, it wasn't as simple as it sounded. He cracked open the door of the cafe, and sat down at his normal table. He liked this place. The food was good, the coffee was strong and best of all, the owner treated him like he was a person, which was more than could be said for most strangers. He could practically feel the other customers eyes burning a hole into the back of his head. It was the kind of thing you would get used to, he reminded himself doubtfully.

His phone buzzed. Another message from Harriet. She knew why he refused her help. Annoyed, he ignored the message. A waitress came up to take his order and he could see her face twist into shock. He grimace as she hid her shock with a smile. They always did this. No one ever mentioned it but he knew what they were thinking.

He had to see it every day in the mirror. The messy, dark scars that traced the outlines of his face. That taunted him everyday. He did not regret the events that lead to them though. If he had a choice he would so it again. Protecting his battalion was the only thing that mattered to him. He would do anything for them, if he had the choice.

Now, he reminded himself, he had lost that choice. His injuries had lead to an honourable discharge and he was back in England indefinitely. He ordered his coffee, black as always, and asked for a newspaper. Flicking through it, he found the Help Wanted section. As irritating as it was, the hospital application process took quite a few weeks and he needed something to tide him over till then.

There was disappointingly little on offer, and even fewer jobs that weren't manual labour or otherwise physically demanding. With his cane he couldn't exactly lift crates or stack shelves, at least not effectively. There were a few babysitting jobs available but he didn't trust himself to be capable with small children and he didn't want to scare them with his scars. Eventually, he found something that piqued his interest. It was vague but if legitimate would be a good offer. It said:

Help Wanted  
Seeking assistance. Live in position. Will be assisting a 26 year old blind man. Basic housekeeping skills preferred. Pay will be discussed in person. Call 020192116 for more information.

Short and to the point. John snapped a photo of the article, folded up the paper and put it away. He would call them later. For now, he needed coffee and a lot of it.


	4. Chapter 4

The storm that rolled in overnight had disappeared before morning – leaving nothing but cloudy skies and murky puddles in the streets. John was sat on a park bench. He'd just stormed out a doctor's appointment, which he had found particularly infuriating. His doctor kept insisting that he should call his sister, even when he refused multiple times. His fraught familial relationships was none of their business and had his reasons to cut contact with his sister. Besides, he didn't need his family's help.

Pulling out his phone, he brought up the wanted ad. He dialed the attached phone number, nearly hanging up when no-one answered for a moment. A voice crackled onto the line. "Are you calling for the job position?" demanded the stranger.

"I am, yes," said John.

"You'll do. Get in the car Mr Watson," said the voice.

"How do you know my name?" asked John in shock.

"I'll explain it later," said the voice. John noticed a nondescript black car pulled up on the street next to the park. "Get in the car." The voice said, hanging up.

John paused, considering the choice. There was a chance that if he got in the car he would disappear and never be seen again. But the job did sound like a great opportunity. It was probably just some pompous rich guy looking to intimidate his potential employee. Eventually he decided he would go for it. If they tried anything funny he would just fight back. At least his military training would come in handy. His cane as well.

He got in the back of the car and saw an uninterested brunette woman sat in the seat next to him. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, with thick wavy hair and distant cold eyes. "I'm John," he said, offering her his hand.

"Anthea," she muttered. John had the distinct feeling that she had told her a fake name but he didn't bother enquiring any further. Something told him that if he asked for her real name, she would just give him another fake one.

The rest of the car trip passed in relative silence. The car pulled into an old abandoned car park, caked in dust and cobwebs. A single solitary figure stood in the room, holding a black umbrella. He gave John a cursory glance as if he was sizing up a foe. John relaxed. Even if this man did attack him, he would be able to fight out such a slight man easily, even with his cane.

"Afternoon. You're here for the job offering. Is that correct?" said the man in a proper English accent. "I'm Mycroft Holmes,"

"John Watson, though you already know that I suppose. How did you find out my name by the way?" John asked.

"Let's just say that I have friends in high places and leave it at that. It's interesting how much you can find out with the right connections" Mycroft explained with a grin. "Back to my offer. I will be hiring you to assist my brother. It has recently come to my attention that he requires some support,"

"So how much?" asked John.

"You're quite direct," laughed Mycroft.

"I'm a military man. What can I say?"

"I deduced as such. £500 a week, payed on a Sunday. Rent will be covered as well as basic groceries. Do we have a deal?" John nodded. That was a good offer and it would be enough to tide him over until his application for the hospital was approved.

"Yes. When will I meet him?" John said shaking Mycroft's hand.

"Anthea will drive you there now. Be warned, my brother can be a bit of a brat sometimes. If he acts up, give me a call," explained Mycroft, swinging his umbrella back and forth as he made his way to the elevator door.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," responded John.

"It's your funeral. Good luck," yelled Mycroft down the empty carpark.


	5. Chapter 5

The car pulled up at a small apartment building attached to a dingy sandwich shop. John stepped out of the car.

"Here we are," announced Anthea. "221b Baker's street. I'll be taking my leave now," John nodded and closed the door, watching as the sleek black car drove away. He walked up to the door of the apartment. Neat brass numbers and letters were nailed onto it, saying 221b. So this was the place. He knocked on the door sharply, getting no response.

He knocked again, louder this time. "Go away!" yelled an angry voice. John knocked once more. He heard someone stomping down a flight of stairs and the door was slammed open, revealing a disgruntled man.

He was tall and lithe, with a mess of dark curls and opaque glasses. He stared at John, not quite making eye contact, and John flinched under his unrelenting gaze. "I don't want to buy a vacuum or set of encyclopedias and I'm not interested in converting to your religion. Now will you please fuck off and leave me alone!" he snapped.

"I'm not a door-to-door salesman. I'm here to help you. Your brother sent me," John explained. Sherlock scowled and slammed the door in John's face. John was startled.

"Well you can tell my brother that I don't need his pity," yelled Sherlock as he stormed upstairs. "I am perfectly capable of looking after myself," John could hear him clattering around in the apartment upstairs and a bout of loud cursing.

John desperately dialed Mycroft's number. Mycroft's voice came onto the line. "He's being annoying again, isn't he?" Mycroft said wearily.

"Yeah," said John.

Mycroft let out a long pained sigh. "Give him the phone. I'll talk to him,"

John rapped on the door one final time. Sherlock came back, fuming with rage, which didn't lessen when he was handed John's phone and heard Mycroft's voice on the other end of the line. He snatched the phone from John's hand.

"I'm not talking to you right now Mycroft… But I don't need help… That gas explosion was not my fault… Yes, I know that I was the one who left the Bunsen burner on but that gas leak was the thing that caused the explosion, and that isn't on me… Wait no! Don't call Mum. I'll let him in,"

He turned to John. "I guess you should come in then," he sighed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes,"

"John Watson,"


	6. Chapter 6

John followed Sherlock up the stairs to his apartment, only pausing when he got another message from his sister. "Dammit Harry. Stop texting me," he hissed to no-one in particular. He sent her an annoyed message, telling her to leave him alone.

Sherlock slammed the door open and thundered inside, making his way into the kitchen. John was taken aback by the state of the apartment. The place was a mess, with random scraps of paper pinned to the walls as well as plates and bowls stacked in the sink and piled around the room. There was laundry strewn about the room that had probably not been washed in weeks. The place reeked.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked Sherlock seeming out of nowhere.

"How could you.." John began.

"You have a limp. I could tell by your walking pattern. It could have been an accident but that's unlikely. Your type of injury generally indicates a military involvement. You're new to London and you need a place to stay. You're desperate too, why else would you respond to my brothers likely creepy job offering,"

"Your brother has offered to let you live with him but you declined. Likely because of your strained relationship. Don't think I missed your little comment at his text. If you had any friends nearby, one of them would have taken you in but they didn't, further cementing my assumption that you've been out of the country for some time and therefore don't know anyone on London. Only possible explanation is deployment in another country. That brings me back to my original question. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock rambled clattered around the kitchen nearly knocking over a pile of plates as he did.

"Afghanistan. I was deployed there when a shell exploded near me. Had to take one for the team, you know? I'm surprised you got all that right. Well almost all of it," John muttered.

"Almost?"

"Harry's my sister, not my brother. It's short for Harriet." He approached Sherlock, watching him as he performed the clumsily executed movement of putting the kettle onto boil, washing up a mug from the sink and spooning in some instant coffee.

"How do you get around so well?"

"I have a sort of map of my apartment in my mind. As long as I know roughly were I am in the room, I can get around pretty easily. It only works for places that I'm familiar with though," The kettle finished boiling, and Sherlock went to pick it up. John stopped him.

"Let me. I don't want you to scald yourself," he said, making Sherlock frown.

"I can do it myself," said Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"You'll get hurt. Give it to me," ordered John, breaking out his army voice. Sherlock's scowl deepened but he reluctantly handed it over. John poured it into the mug and handed it to Sherlock. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Sherlock wordlessly made his way into the living room and sat down, drinking his coffee. John was shocked that he didn't trip over all the clothes strewn about the floor. "This place is a mess," John continued. "When did you last clean up?"

"I don't know. Maybe a month or two ago," said Sherlock as he finished up his drink. "I'm going to work on something in my room. If you insist on staying here, please don't be loud. I need to focus on my work,"

"What do you do?" asked John.

"I'm a consulting detective," answered Sherlock with a cocky smirk. "I work with Scotland Yard when they're in over their head,"

Sherlock left and locked himself in his bedroom, leaving John by himself in the otherwise empty apartment. He decided to put on some laundry and wash some dishes. The place really was a tip.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning John moved in his stuff from the motel where he was staying and put them away. It didn't take very long as he didn't have very many possessions. Just the clothes he wore when off duty in Afghanistan, an old battered phone, and a cheap laptop that he bought off the internet about a week ago for a hundred and fifty bucks. He had bought it with the main intention of doing some blogging at the recommendation of his therapist.

John wasn't sure that blogging would be terribly helpful but he was willing to give it a try. Some brief googling gave him the necessary information to make his own website. It was easier than he thought it would be. He had always thought of computers as a young man's thing.

Then he got to the blog itself, which was more tricky. He hadn't written anything in a while and was quickly reminded why. It was ridiculously difficult. Each word was a struggle. It was like pulling teeth. And that was only the About Me section.

There was a space to add a picture of himself. He almost did but stopped. He didn't really want strangers to know what he looked like. Deciding against it, he went to attempt his first blog post. He stared at the screen blankly. A lot had happened over the last few days but he just couldn't get it down. Why was this so hard?

He was startled when Sherlock slammed open his bedroom door. "Get ready. We're going out," he said sharply.

"What are you talking about?" asked John.

"I got a call from Scotland Yard. They told me that they'll only let me onto the crime scene if I have someone else there with me. You're the only person I can think of, so you'll have to do. Get your shoes on. We need to go as soon as we can so hurry the fuck up," explained Sherlock, leaving the room as quickly as he came.

John couldn't see any reason not to. It was his job to help the man after all.

He turned off his laptop and went to fetch his boots from the cupboard. They were old and scuffed but he preferred them over any of the other shoes that he had owned. They had served him well in the five years he had owned them. Pulling them on, he went to check on how Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock had successfully put on his coat and buttoned it up. He was knelt on the floor, fiddling with his shoelaces and cursing under his breath. It seemed like he was having some trouble.

"I can help you with that," offered John. "If you want,"

"Fine, hurry up," gritted Sherlock, standing up and crossing his arms defensively.

John crouched down and tied the laces and quickly as he could. "Are you done yet?" demanded Sherlock.

"Yep!" beamed John, rising to his feet. He threw on a coat and Sherlock fetched his cane from the coffee table. He left the building and unraveled his cane. John watched him use it to find the edge of the sidewalk. Standing there, Sherlock hailed a taxi and got in, where he folded up the cane. John trailed after him. He noticed that Sherlock was shaking with joy and grinning extatically.

"You seem pretty excited," John remarked. "Is this interesting an case?"

"Of course I am! Four serial suicides over the course of a month. All identical."

"Is there something different this time?" asked John.

"Yes. This time there's a suicide note. It's practically Christmas!" exclaimed Sherlock. John found his attitude slightly creepy. There was an awkward silence in the cab that didn't end until they pulled up to the crime scene.

Sherlock went to pay the cab fare but struggled to tell the coins and notes apart. Irritated, he shoved his wallet at John, demanding that he pay. He got out the car, leaving John to count out the money and pay the driver.

John left the car soon afterward. The crime scene was crawling with cops and forensic officers. There was bright yellow police tape around the perimeter. He noticed that Sherlock was talking to a woman with dark coiled hair just beyond the crime scene boundary. She was wearing a grey woolen peacoat over a black pencil skirt. She seemed a little startled when she saw John's scars but didn't say anything.

"Hey freakshow," said a woman. There was a faint smirk on her lips. John could see it was a term of endearment.

"Sally Donovan. It's been a while," said Sherlock in response.

"Lestrade wants to brief you. He's just over there." She pointed out a man standing a handful of metres away. Sherlock stared at her – or where he thought she was - for half a second with an incredulous expression. "Sorry. Didn't think. Just follow the police tape a few paces. You'll get there eventually," she continued. Using the plastic tape as a guide, Sherlock went to talk to the man.

John was about to follow him, when Sally spoke. "So… you and the freak show. What's going on there? I'm assuming that you two aren't friends,"

"We're not. I barely know the man. We just met yesterday. To be honest, I'm basically his assistant," he admitted.

"Thought so. Sherlock doesn't do friends. Did his brother hire you?" she asked.

"He did,"

"Thought so. Sherlock can be a pretty stubborn guy. He's been refusing our help for weeks. I guess he wants to stay independent and not rely on others, which is admirable, but sooner or later he needs to learn that needing assistance doesn't make you weak. His brother is the only person he accepts any help from," she explained.

"You seem pretty worried about him. Are you two close?" John asked.

"No. I don't even like him actually. He's an asshole and a cocky bastard at the best of times. But I'm still concerned about him and his safety. I mean, I'm not a monster. I don't want him to get hurt or anything. You know?" She shrugged her shoulders in exacerbation.

"That's understandable,"

"I do want to give you a warning though. I wouldn't get too tangled up with Sherlock if I were you. Assist him when needed an accept the payment but don't get too close. He loves this sort of thing too much to be normal. One day, we're going to go to a murder scene and he'll have been the one to put the body there."

"That sounds pretty farfetched to me" interjected John.

"I'm just warning you. Do with the information what you will," responded Sally with a shrug. Someone called her name from across the crowded car park. "I've got to go. I'll see you sometime," She left and John went to join Sherlock and the man he was talking to.

The man gave John a skeptical look and raised an eyebrow. "This is your assistant?"

"Yeah. Got a problem with that?" gritted Sherlock.

"No. Just not who I was expecting," admitted Lestrade. "I'm not sure if I'm totally comfortable with having you here Sherlock. Are you sure you'll be able to look after yourself properly?" he asked, leading them to toward the building.

"I have my cane and my assistant. I'll be fine,"

"Can't argue with that," said Lestrade, opening the door to the building. Standing in the doorway, blocking their path, was a tall, skinny man in scrubs. He scowled at Sherlock. "I did know you'd be here," he grumbled. Looking at Lestrade, he spoke again.

"Is he really gonna be that much help? He's blind for heaven's sakes. Can't exactly deduce much anymore, can he?" he growled, his tone cruel.

"Anderson!" snapped Lestrade. "That's hardly appropriate,"

"No. No. It's quite alright. Mr Anderson is probably just in a bad mood because his wife is out of town," said Sherlock in response with a pointed stare. "He probably misses her. Poor thing."

"There's no way you figured that out! Someone told you."

"Your deodorant. It for men," pattronised Sherlock, as if he was talking to a child.

"Of course it's for men. I'm wearing it," Anderson snapped.

Sherlock gave him a cold look. "So, it seems, is Mrs Donovan,"

"I don't know what you're insinuating but –"

"I'm not insinuating anything. Merely stating facts," announced Sherlock, turning to Lestrade. " The body is upstairs isn't it?"

Anderson grumbled something about Sherlock being a wanker under his breath and stormed off somewhere else in the building. Lestrade looked at Sherlock with a shocked expression, speechless. "Yes," he finally said. "It's just upstairs. I'll take you there,"

True to his word, he took the two of them upstairs and into a room. Set on the table where several sets of blue scrubs. "Please scrub in," said Lestrade, handing a set to Sherlock. Sherlock considered it a moment before setting it back onto the table wordlessly. Lestrade didn't press any further, though he did hand a set to John, who put it on without objection.

Taking them up the stairs, Lestrade let them into the room. And there she was. The victim. A woman in a pink coat, lying dead on the floor. John was speechless. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it; this was a crime scene after all. He just hadn't seen a dead body since he got home from Afghanistan, where it had been a relatively common occurrence. There was something strangely disturbing about it, seeing it in such a normal place instead of the heat of battle or the stress of the medical room.

He tried to shake the though out of his head. Made himself speak. Say something. Anything.

"That's certainly very pink," was all he could muster.


	8. Chapter 8

"That's certainly very pink,"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Sherlock, snapping on a pair of gloves and going to crouch next to the body.

"Her coat is quite a bright pink. Almost an alarming shade, actually," explained John. Sherlock hummed an agreement, running a hand along the woman's back. John watched him work, entranced. Sherlock slipped his fingers underneath her collar, before pulling out an umbrella.

After turning it over once in his hands, he placed it back in her pocket. He took her wrist in one hand and used the other to felt her hand for a ring. Once he had a grip on the woman's wedding ring, he removed it carefully. He rolled it around in his fingers before pulling it back on.

"What do the splash marks on her legs look like?" he asked, while he did this.

"Splash marks?"

"Splash marks, yes. Keep up. Look for patterns of water spread on the fabric. Tell me what you see."

John squinted at the woman's tights. "It's about the size of a palm, starting just above the ankle. On the left side. Does that help?"

"Better than nothing," muttered Sherlock.

Noticing the rough state of the woman's nails, he eventually managed to locate and run his finger along the letters etched into the floor. "What does this say?"

"Rache," John attempted. The word was weird and sounded foreign in his mouth. "Like Rachel without the last letter. Do you think it's a message?"

"It's possible," admitted Sherlock. Standing up again, he snapped off his gloves and shoved them in his coat pocket.

"So, have you got anything useful?" asked Lestrade.

"Not much," Sherlock answered, fiddling through his phone and cursing under his breath. His phone buzzed and quietly played a sound clip. John couldn't quite hear what the clip was playing but it was clearly interesting, causing Sherlock to grin.

"She's German," interjected a voice from the doorway. Surprised, John turned around, only for his eyes to meet Anderson's. He scowled at the sight. He had only met Anderson once - and that was just for a few seconds - but he had already decided that he didn't like him very much. Anyone who had an affair was automatically in his bad books, and Anderson seemed like a massive fucking wanker as well.

"Rache. It's German for revenge," he smirked. John really wanted to punch him in the face, smug bastard. Sherlock seemed to agree with him, walking up to the door and slamming it in Anderson's face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your input,"

"So she's German," John said.

"No. She isn't from London though. She's staying in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff." He held out his phone, where a weather report was up on the screen, but he snatched it away before John could get a good look.

"But what about the message?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's question, instead turning his attention to John. "I need you to perform a medical examination for me," said Sherlock gesturing toward the body. "Find the cause of death."

"We have an entire forensic team out there Sherlock. Don't drag your assistant into this," interjected Lestrade.

"None of them will work with me. You know that. Besides, John's a medical man. He'll be fine," snapped Sherlock. "John, the body,"

John nodded and made his way over, setting his cane on the floor and lowering himself to the ground. He reminded himself to breathe. It was just a body. He'd seen plenty of those in his lifetime. This one was no different. Stay calm and focused, tell them what they need to know. His eyes swept the body for any signs of wounds that could denote the use of a weapon such as a knife or gun. Finding none, he came to the conclusion that the death was likely nonviolent.

Taking the victim's wrist, he turned it over only to find numerous small markings on the arm. Petechiae. Usually coterminous with asphyxiation of some kind, as they appear when there is a severe lack of oxygen in the blood, which causes the capillaries to burst.

That suggested asphyxiation of some kind, strangulation maybe. He checked the neck for any signs of trauma but found none. He sniffed the air, searching for the recognisable scent of alcohol and found none.

"Likely asphyxiated. No signs of trauma so probably choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol, so it could be drugs related or a possibly seizure," he offered.

"Come on. You know what happened. You've seen the news,"

John swallowed a shaky breath. "She's one of the suicides. The fourth." He had seen a handful of suicide attempts before. Desperate people have nothing to lose after all. He had expected – hoped even – to get used to it, just as he hoped to get used to seeing death as a medic. He was wrong of course. It was gut wrenching every single time.

Reality sucked sometimes.

"Times up. I need anything you've got," said Lestrade.

"Victim is in her late forties. A professional working in the media by my best guess if John's description of her coat is anything to go by. She's travelled from Cardiff and is staying in London for one night, judging by the size of her suitcase. I assume she is visiting her latest lover," explained Sherlock.

"Suitcase?" said Lestrade, more of a question than anything.

"Yes, suitcase. She's been unhappily married for over ten years and has had a string of lovers, though none of them knew she was married,"

"I swear if you're just making this up."

"The ring is at least ten years old, judging by its condition and style. Not very well taken care of, going by the scuffs and marks on it – state of the marriage right there. Given that the marriage is likely in shambles, it is only logical that her one night visits to the city are due to a string of affairs – it would be impossible to maintain the lie of being single for more than a few weeks.

"That's brilliant," exclaimed John. Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Sorry. Where'd you get Cardiff from though?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me…"

"My god. What is it like in your funny little minds?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Her coat is still wet, indicating that she's been in heavy rain within the last few hours, given the type of fabric her coat is made from. However, it hasn't rained in London today. The underside of her collar is also damp. She turned it up against the wind. Didn't use her umbrella though – so it was strong wind.

"It's obvious from the range of the splash marks on her thigh that her suitcase is only small. This indicates that she's only staying one night, so she must have travelled some distance, though not more that two or three hours away. Only place that fits those parameters is Cardiff. Obvious,"

John was impressed. The man was brilliant.

"So where's the suitcase?" demands Sherlock, feeling around the room. "We need to find her phone or organizer – find who Rachel is,"

"There isn't one," said Lestrade. "We never found a case in this building."

The gears were turning in Sherlock's mind. Throwing open the door, he stormed out onto the landing of the house. "Did anyone find a suitcase!"

"There isn't a case Sherlock. There never was one,"

"But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves. It's so obvious," exclaimed Sherlock, feeling his way down the stairs and doing his best not to fall. "It's murder. I don't know how but it is. We have a serial killer on our hands. Always fun. You have to wait for them make a mistake."

"We can't just wait Sherlock!" said Lestrade. "People could die!"

"We won't have to. She clearly had a case, so where is it? The murderer must have driven her here, so the case is still be in his car. Now he'll be trying getting rid of it – we just need to find it,"

He grinned and offered out his hand. "Let's go catch ourselves a serial killer. Will you help me with this, John?"

John paused for half a second. On the one hand, he was still reeling from the shock of being dragged to a crime scene and finding out about the suspected murder. His adrenaline was through the roof and his heart was racing. On the other hand, he wanted more.

He needed this high. The adrenaline and sense of loyalty had been the only things that kept him going in the army. Now that he'd lost that, he needed to find another way to get that feeling. This seemed like a good replacement.

"Yeah, I will,"


	9. Chapter 9

John didn't know what he had expected when he took up this position. Mostly assisting with some basic tasks. Some cleaning probably. Maybe some laundry. Not being dragged to a crime scene. Definitely not rooting through a skip with a madman, looking for a pink suitcase.

He was exhausted. They had searched through over two dozen skips, wheelie bins, back alleys and abandoned buildings near to the crime scene and found nothing. He was coated in cobwebs and dust and felt absolutely disgusting.

He was about ready to throw in the towel and tell Sherlock that he must have made a mistake - that they would never find the case – when he noticed a bright flash of pink underneath a garbage bag. "Hey Sherlock!" he called out, pulling it out. "I think I've found it."

"Is it the same color as her coat?" asked Sherlock, while John did his best to clamber out the skip without falling on his way. Setting the case down on the floor, John squinted it, struggling to see in the dim light. It looked like it was the right color.

"Pretty sure, yeah," he said. Sherlock smirked, took out his cane and made his way out the alley. Following him, John leaned on his walking stick, dragging the case behind him. They hailed a cab.

"Check the case for a phone," said Sherlock as they entered the car and he told the cabbie their address.

John set the case down on the seat between them, undoing the zip. He shuffled through the woman's suitcase but didn't find a phone. He told Sherlock this, prompting an annoyed reaction from the man. "The killer must still have her phone. Damn it."

"Maybe she didn't bring it with her to London?" suggested John.

"And risk her husband finding out about her affairs? Seems unlikely." Sherlock paused for a moment, considering the situation. "Is there a luggage tag on the case with a number on it?"

John checked and did indeed find a pink tag attached to the suitcase. He flipped it over and on the other side was an email address, as well as a regular address and a phone number.

"There is, yes."

"I want you to send a message to that number for me using your phone," he states, his voice clear and sharp.

"Can't you just use yours?" asked John.

"My messenger isn't voice enabled yet and there's always a chance my number will be recognized. Just do it," said Sherlock. He paused for a second. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes. Give me a bloody minute," said John, typing the number into his phone.

"Have you done it?"

"Hang on a sec." John typed in the last three digits. "Okay I'm done,"

"Type these words exactly. "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland street. Please come." Be quick about it, we don't have all day,"

John fumbled with the text for a moment before hitting send. Then the realization of what had just happened came crashing down on him like a bucket of ice water. "Wait … You said that the killer had her phone and I just texted her number."

"Yes,"

"You just had me text a serial killer."

"I did,"

"But why?"

Suddenly, the phone started ringing. John snatched up his phone and stared at the screen. The number was the same as the one he had just messaged. "It's been a few hours since his last victim - and now he's got a text which can only be from her," said Sherlock. "Someone who'd just found the phone would ignore a text like that. But the murderer…"

Abruptly the ringing stopped.

"Would panic!"

The taxi came to a stop outside their flat. Sherlock snapped off his seatbelt, snatching the suitcase in his hands, leaving John again to pay the cabbie and follow after him. It was strange how they seemed to follow the same patterns.

"Wait here a second," said Sherlock, bolting into the apartment. John was left outside for a few minutes, when Sherlock came back, this time without the case.

It was like Sherlock could feel John raise his eyebrow and responded without prompt. "A case that colour would just draw attention to us and we need to be inconspicuous. Besides, the killer might recognise it."

That actually made a lot of sense. Curse Sherlock's logical nature. "So what's the plan?" asked John, as they walked down the street in step. The sun had set while they were searching for the case and a quiet dusk had settled over the city. The streets were lit with warm yellow light emitting from the tall streetlamps. The stars were scattered across the sky, each a shining beacon of light. It would have been romantic had they not been hot on the trail of a serial killer.

Why was he thinking about romance at a time like this? Surely not… He couldn't be thinking about Sherlock in _that_ way. Sherlock was a man. A very attractive man, but a man nonetheless. And John was straight.

The entire idea was completely, absolutely ridiculous.

He had been so deep in thought that he didn't even realise that Sherlock was speaking to him. "Sorry but what did you just say? I zoned out for a second."

Sherlock scowled but repeated himself. "We'll wait for the killer to arrive at 22nd Northumberland Street. There's a nice Italian restaurant across the street. The owner owes me a favour so he'll let us wait there."

"So we're banking on him just showing up."

"Yes."

"There's a lot of ways that could go wrong," John said. "How do you know it will work?"

"I don't. But it's the only plan we've got, so it will have to do," announced Sherlock, suddenly stopping in his tracks. "We're here."

John turned to see a small Italian restaurant. The windows could do with a good scrub, but the place was otherwise clean and relatively neat. "Let me get the door for you," offered John. Sherlock didn't say anything, but allowed John to open the door for him.

A small, skinny teenage boy greeted the two of them and directed them to small table, covered with a white tablecloth with neat black menu's in front of each seat.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed a short greasy man, setting his hands on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's been so long since I last saw you."

"It's good to see you too Angelo. I haven't been out for a while, not since the accident…"

Accident? John had assumed that Sherlock was born blind. Could this accident have been when he was blinded? Sherlock didn't seem to want to talk about though, so he wouldn't push.

Angelo gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm glad you found someone Sherlock. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, all completely _free_! On the house. For you and your date."

"I'm not his date," insisted John. Angelo ignored him completely.

"You picked a good one here _Amico mio_. This man is brilliant! He got me off homicide charges," declared Angelo, while shaking John's hand gleefully.

"John, this is Angelo," Sherlock said, introducing the two men. "Three years ago I successfully cleared him of three murder charges by proving he was house breaking on the other side of town. He still went to prison though."

"You cleared my name. Proclaimed my innocence."

"I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "Any interesting activity opposite?"

Angelo considered a second. "There was this suspicious looking guy hanging around but when we went to talk to him, it turned out that he was just a drunk who got lost on his way back from the bar. We called his wife for him and he ended up getting a cab home."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "Keep an eye out for me. Tell me if anything changes. And get me some coffee too if you will."

"Absolutely. I'll also get a candle for your table. Make it more romantic,"

"Still not his date," repeated John.

Angelo smirked. "Sure thing," he said, wandering off. John looked to see Sherlock's reaction. The man's expression was stony and unmoving - clearly unbothered - as he pulled out his chair and sat down. He placed his folded up cane on the table. John followed his lead, sitting across from him.

Why did this feel so much like a date? God was this a weird feeling.

Angelo came back a moment later with a candle, that he set on the table, with a smile. He pulled a matchstick out, lighting the candle with a flourish before handing Sherlock his coffee. A candle lit dinner… Still not a date, John reminded himself. Then another thought came to him.

"Donovan said that you don't have any friends," he started carefully. "Is that true?"

"Yes," responded Sherlock, sipping his coffee. "I never saw the point. Friends just get in the way."

"I'm assuming you don't have a girlfriend either then."

Sherlock laughed. "Think about it John. I would be a terrible boyfriend by most people's standards. I work strange hours, keep body parts in the fridge –"

"You keep _what_ in the fridge?" exclaimed John in shock.

"Body parts. They're for my experiments. I sometimes ignore people for days on end, so I wouldn't exactly be an attentive lover," explained Sherlock. "Besides, women aren't exactly my area, if you know what I mean,"

"So… no girlfriend. A boyfriend then?" Sherlock gave him a curious look. "Which is fine by the way," added John quickly.

"I know that it's _fine_," snapped Sherlock. "And no. I don't have a boyfriend."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. That's fine. Good actually," stammered John. What was it about Sherlock that made him so speechless? And why did Sherlock being single please him so much?

Sherlock gave him another cold stare. "John, I consider myself married to my work," he said sharply.

Wait, what?

"And while I am very flattered," he continued. "I am not looking for a relationship currently."

"NO! No, no. I wasn't asking you out. I'm just saying, it's all fine. Besides, I'm straight. Women, totally my thing. Dating women. Kissing women. All that stuff." He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. He had definitely made this weird.

Sherlock seemed a little confused by the whole conversation, but didn't say anything else, taking another sip of his coffee. "Any movement opposite?"

John snuck a glance at the dark street outside. A discreet black taxi had pulled up outside 22nd Northumberland Street. "Just a taxi cab," replied John.

The cab was unremarkable really. The same type of cab that were driving all over London at that exact moment. He didn't expect Sherlock to care. He expected him to sigh and sit back in his chair, furrowing his eyebrows. Instead, Sherlocks face twisted into an inquisitive expression as he sat up ramrod straight.

"A taxi…" he muttered. "That's actually very clever. Is it clever? I can't tell."

"A taxi, really?" quizzed John. "You think a murderer is going around in a cab, killing people? With pills… That he makes them take themselves." It seemed a bit of a strange concept. He tried to get a good luck at the shadowy figure sitting in the back of the taxi but had no luck at picking out any defining features.

"Don't stare. We want to surprise him," said Sherlock. How did he know that John was staring? Sherlock nonchalantly stood out of his chair and threw on his coat. Unfurling his cane, he walking quickly went onto the street. John followed after him.

Just as they were about to cross the street to investigate further, the car started speed off in the other direction. John was immediately on the case, running after it. This wasn't going to work. What on earth had possessed him to think that he could catch up to a car on foot? Instead, he did his best to memorise the car's number plate as he slowed back down

He was startled when Sherlock came up behind him. He moved surprisingly quickly, stopping next to John. "I got the number plate," he offered breathlessly.

"Good for you," snapped Sherlock. He paused for a second, before rushing off across the crowded road. A symphony of car horns start up. Sherlock was almost hit by a bus that screeched to a halt just a few millimetres from him. The bus driver cursed wildly, making many violent and inappropriate hand gestures. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and dragged him safely to the other side of the road.

"What the hell were you thinking? You idiot!"

"I know London. I can catch up with them. Just let me do this," screamed Sherlock. People were staring at them. They probably believed this some kind of weird, nonsensical lovers spat.

"Sherlock, you just ran into traffic. You could have died!"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not some helpless child. I can handle this on my own."

"If you insist on doing this, I'm coming with you. You don't have to do this alone," insisted John. Sherlock seemed slightly stunned, but nodded slowly. "So, which way are we going?"

Sherlock paused, stumbling to the wall of the nearest building. He leant against it for a couple seconds, information flashing through his mind. He corrected and readjusted the route with the information he could remember.

"This way!" he announced, running off in pursuit of the taxi. John could do nothing but run after him.

Next couple chapters will be up slower than usual because I'm going back to school.


	10. Chapter 10

A bit shorter chapter this time. School's been crazy recently, so I haven't had as much time for this fic. I hope everyone understands.

Sometimes there are moments where you have to make a choice that would change your whole life. This was one of those moments.

John was standing on the precipice of some strangers fire escape, seeing the dark hair of his companion whipping about their face in the wind. Sherlock made an attempt to jump across, only being stopped when John dragged him back by his shoulders.

"I'll go first and help you over."

It was a strangely touching notion for Sherlock, that someone could care enough about to put themselves second after knowing him for just hours. Later he would learn that John is like this with everyone.

He was the kind of person to love and care first and ask questions later.

Sherlock gave some kind of agreement – he must have – because seconds later Johns hand was in his and he was being helped across the ravine of an alleyway. As soon as they are safely to the other side, John let go, though his hand lingered for just an instant too long.

Had Sherlock said something anything in that moment, John would probably have given him a response somewhere along the lines of wanting to give Sherlock freedom as well as safety. Accepting a hand across a treacherous jump doesn't make him weak. Accepting that he might need help doesn't make him pathetic or stupid. It just makes him human. Humans are perhaps the strangest creatures of all. They reject help they need and push people away. And for what? Pride? Perhaps. Stupidity? Maybe.

Something told John that Sherlock was not stupid. In reality, he was a very perceptive, intelligent man. That pride of his however… John has a feeling that Sherlock's hubris would be his downfall.

Sherlock was a Bellerophon, perched on the back of a Pegasus, flying to heights he is not meant to. He had no self-preservation, no idea that he has angered Gods. Sherlock likely has enemies in high places, there is no way someone like him can get through life without accumulating a few.

Sherlock was an Icarus, edging ever closer to the sun. He didn't care that his wings are melting or that his feathers are burning away. He just wants to chase that dream. That idea of something more. The control he wants, the power, it's impossible to get without some sacrifice.

A part of John worried that when that fall happens, he will be powerless to stop it.

Still, there was no time for such introspection.

They had places to be. Criminals to chase. John needed this adrenaline, like an unmatchable high. Sherlock was fast. It took all of John's energy to keep up with him. His lungs were inhaling and exhaling forcefully with every bounding step he took.

Observation, deduction, investigation – all that stuff was never for him. But running? He could do that just fine. He had been doing it for years. It was the only thing that kept him alive in Afghanistan. The single minded focus saved him from being peppered with bullets. That focus was what kept him alive while everyone he cared about died.

With no further thought, he kept running.

They ran through theatres and abandoned factories and - at one notable point – an old woman's apartment. It all ended with them bursting out of a rundown apartment complex onto a crowded motorway. Completely out of breath, Sherlock murmured something about John finding the taxi cab for him and John immediately scans the street. Bolting out onto the street, John slammed his hands down on the hood of the car. The driver, a young tanned man, startled and slammed on the brakes.

The man stormed out the taxi, going to make some rude gestures at John, when Sherlock started rooting around the back of the car. He paused a moment, confusion written all over his face. Then he held out one suitcase, non-verbally asking John to read the luggage label.

"LA, Santa Monica. His departure was earlier today," explained John.

"This isn't our guy…"

The unmistakable stench of failure hangs in the air.

"Are you guys the police?" asked the man suddenly. The question was so abrupt that John nearly laughed.

Sherlock gives it a moment's thought and nods, pulling out a police badge. "Yes. Routine inspection. Everything's fine."

"Okay…" The man still seemed slightly unconvinced.

"Welcome to London," Sherlock stated, before storming off in the other direction. John runs after him. He could practically feel the anger radiating off Sherlock.

"You're angry."

"Furious."

"It was just a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes," assured John.

Sherlock scowled. "I don't. At least, I didn't. Not before."

John isn't sure what to say to this. The walk back to the apartment is uncomfortably quiet. Once they get back, John notices something strange. The lights are on inside. John definitely turned them off earlier.

The panicked thought teared through his mind. Were they being robbed? "I don't mean to frighten you Sherlock, but I think there's someone in our apartment. The lights are on but they definitely weren't before," he whispered.

Sherlock just sighed and trudged up the stairs. He slammed open the door. Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock's chair. His eyes greet Sherlock as he entered.

"What the fuck are you doing here Lestrade?" snarled Sherlock.

Lestrade just smiles. "You know why I'm here Sherlock…"


End file.
